Ronald J. Lawrence

Jesse Stoneking

All Jesse Stoneking had to do was be himself -- look tough and menacing -- to earn the easiest $25,000 that had ever come his way. For the right-hand man to St. Louis mobster Art Berne, the job seemed too good to be true. And it was.

by Ronald J. Lawrence

Prologue

It was an improbable criminal coalition. There was Bob Neal Carson, the sultan of sin whose efforts in the early 1970s to become a feared, ruthless rackets boss in the Fort Leonard Wood area ended in disaster that brought down the entire lucrative prostitution and gambling business. His hapless collection of hit men and enforcers became the laughing stock of the Missouri underworld, the proverbial gang that couldn't shoot or bomb straight who were their own worst enemy.

On the other side was Jesse Stoneking, the deadly efficient, stone-cold killer who was second in command of Art Berne's powerful mob on St. Louis' East Side and who spoke with the authority of the Chicago Outfit. Not only did he possess the reputation of being a ferocious enforcer of prodigious strength who feared no man and had the agility and cunning of a mountain lion, he was an adept thief and burglar who plotted his scores with the patience and precision of a an architect. He was everything the impulsive, bungling Carson was not.

Thus it was early in 1978, four years after Carson had been acquitted of federal conspiracy charges and four years before Stoneking would become the Federal Bureau of Investigation's most devastating undercover informant in the Midwest, that they joined forces.

Ozark Mountains

John Avy, the "Phantom of the Ozarks," was a "godfather" a century before his time. His criminal exploits in the 1830s – wholesale thievery, counterfeiting, murder-for-hire and the political corruption to make it all possible – marked the most lawless period in Missouri history, making Jesse James' gang a few decades later seem mild and inept by comparison. It took a vigilante group known as the "Slickers" to bring him down.

by Ronald J. Lawrence

"The ruling spirit was a man far removed from his assumed character of a simple pioneer. He was so shrewd in concealing his identity and his connection with the outlaws … " J. W. Vincent

John Avy was a chameleon, adept at blending with his immediate surroundings. He wore different faces designed not only to deceive and confuse, but also to conceal his true identity and give him anonymity. They helped create the enigma that surrounded the man who was to become known as the "Phantom of the Ozarks."

The face Avy most often wore was that of a simple, decent, soft-spoken man. There appeared to be nothing sinister about him. He kept to himself and no one really knew, or cared, for that matter, what he did for a living or from where he came. He seemed just another settler who had drifted west in the late 1820s as the frontier, then Missouri, opened up. He preferred the obscurity of the backwoods near what is now the sprawling tourist center of the Lake of the Ozarks. A low profile was the way he wanted it and this posture served his purposes well for many years.

Behind another face, rarely seen by the public, was a calculating, perverse and violent man.

Avy was, in fact, a Mafia "Godfather" a century before his time. He and his trusted, loyal soldiers, a collection of murderers, robbers, thieves, swindlers, manipulators and extortionists, were the precursor of organized crime in Missouri, if not the country. As primitive as it might have been, the Avy mob was unlike the rag-tag outlaws of the time. It was as sophisticated, ruthless, disciplined and as cohesive as any contemporary crime family, perhaps lacking only in the opportunities that exist today. Jesse James' gang a few decades later would seem meek and inept by comparison.

Could a Midwestern resort town with a struggling economy be bamboozled out of $25 million by a chain-smoking, fancy-dressing New Yorker? Yes. So how much time did this flimflam man get? Six months.

by Ronald J. Lawrence

Prologue

When Harvey Martin Zelin came to the Lake of the Ozarks in central Missouri in 1984, he was heralded, not only by others, but by himself, as a Messiah who would lead the people of this extensive recreational area into financial paradise. He would replace the bitter taste of disappointment and deprivation many of its residents knew with the sweet taste of prosperity. Economic revival with its accompanying wealth, he assured them, was just around the corner and he would make it happen.

Zelin, a well-dressed high roller in his late 40s, was flamboyant and glib. He maintained a high profile, dressing himself in the affluence of a successful venture capitalist. He gave the common people of the lake a glimpse of the opulence he promised them. The jewelry, real or fake, that adorned his fingers and wrist was dazzling. The new white Cadillac he drove bore personalized license plates with the initials "HMZ." He bought a lavish house along the wooded shoreline of the lake and called it "Harvey's Hideaway." They, too, someday could share in that lifestyle.

For the lake people, many of them not far from the poverty line, the chain-smoking Zelin was the Music Man gone corporate. He told them what they wanted to hear, that he was no different than they. As they had, he had come from humble beginnings. He had been a dude ranch manager in the Catskills, a medical supply salesman on the East Coast and, of late, a real estate investor in Houston. After all, he was "just a small businessman." Not long before he also had been poor. A friend of his would confide that when Zelin left New York City only a few years earlier, it was with a one-way bus ticket and a $20 bill in his pocket.

Harvey Martin Zelin's covenant with the people was his word – trust me and you will prosper. But was Harvey Martin Zelin the financial wizard, the benefactor, he claimed to be?

Downtown Pacific MO

Lawyers don't always confine their differences to the courtroom. Attorney Joseph Langworthy's murder was a cold-blooded execution paid for by an attorney so well connected that the chief of police "lost" all the evidence in the case for over a year.

by Ronald J. Lawrence

Prologue

Joseph H. Langworthy Jr. was a man of strong convictions and unshakable principles. A lawyer with a practice in Pacific, a community on the southwest fringes of the St. Louis suburbs, he tolerated no abuses of his profession and of the law.

He often was the center of controversy he sometimes created. He had been city attorney of nearby Times Beach, his hometown, but was dismissed when he charged that municipal officials had violated state laws in their administration of the police department. In Pacific, he sent tremors through the local political establishment when he challenged the qualifications of the newly elected police judge.

An unpretentious man of candor, Langworthy's rigid standards were reflected in his personal appearance. His hair was trimmed in crew-cut style and he wore a bow tie. Almost symbolically, he was an avid musician and played the tuba in a Dixieland jazz ensemble that entertained fans during Cardinal baseball games at Busch Stadium.

That his law practice was successful was evident by the long hours he worked. He often was in his office until late at night with clients. His office was on the second floor of a downtown Pacific drug store. The first floor door to his office always was unlocked and a sign invited people to "Walk In."

There was nothing ambiguous about the 58-year-old Langworthy. He was quick to speak his mind and he was not averse to challenging those he believed were wrong, the higher and the mightier the better.

It perhaps explained why by the summer of 1976 Langworthy had a police escort when he left his office late at night. He had reason to be concerned. He had made a powerful enemy and his life was worth only $7,000.

Spica car bombing

Sonny Spica, the rash protégé of St. Louis Outfit boss Tony Giordano, was a marked man. Nick Civella in Kansas City wanted him dead and so did Ray Flynn, the most violent labor racketeer in St. Louis. The car bomb that killed Spica in 1979 ignited St. Louis' infamous "Leisure Wars."

by Ronald J. Lawrence

"You got a man we want. Either you take care of him or send him to us."
- Nick Civella

John Paul "Sonny" Spica was walking on the edge. By late October, 1979, it was inevitable that his life would end violently. It just was a question of when, how and by whom.

Spica was wedged between two inexorable forces of death. On one side was the Kansas City Mafia, which demanded his execution for violating sacred mob protocol. On the other was the most dangerous, devious labor racketeer in St. Louis and a gang of cutthroat hoodlums who settled their disputes with bullets, bombs and mayhem. Spica stood in their way and he had made unpardonable threats.

The underworld waited and watched to see who would kill him first.

St. Louis, Missouri

Paulie Leisure wanted to control St. Louis' underworld and he was prepared to kill anyone who stood in his way. In using car bombs to take out Tony Giordano protégé Sonny Spica and then Jimmy Michaels, the venerable head of the Syrian-Lebanese faction, he touched off a bloodbath known as the "Leisure War."

by Ronald J. Lawrence

Prologue

St. Louis' underworld was unique. It had three distinct, but cohesive, organized crime families. The most influential was the Mafia, controlled by the respected Anthony "Tony G" Giordano. The Syrian-Lebanese faction in south St. Louis was headed by James A. "Jimmy" Michaels Sr. Across the Mississippi River in Illinois, Art Berne ruled the third outfit. Like Giordano, Berne spoke with the authority of the Chicago Syndicate.

All three shared authority in many of the construction unions, the most important of which were Laborers' Union Locals 42, 53 and 110 in St. Louis. Not only were they a source of lucre for the mob, but whoever controlled them inherited considerable influence and power. For some time Giordano had been the overlord.

Paul John "Paulie" Leisure, a Syrian who was a suspected contract killer, headed a small dissident, but deadly, group of gangsters. He once had been close to Giordano and Michaels, but he had come to despise them. He coveted control of the St. Louis underworld and saw the Laborers' locals as an expedient to it. He already had a piece of the action, but he wanted it all. However, Giordano and Michaels stood in his way and someone had to die.

The car bomb that killed Philip J. Lucier – the president of the Continental Telephone Co. and the father of 11 children – was meant for an attorney whose clients had swindled a minor New Orleans Mafioso. The FBI misread and mishandled the case from the beginning. Subsequent federal investigations never produced a single indictment. Now, 30 yeas later, it seems certain no one will ever be charged in Lucier's tragic death.

 by Ronald J. Lawrence

"It never occurred to me to look closer. There was nothing suspicious."

- A witness

12:13 p. m. July 24, 1970 – Philip J. Lucier, president of Continental Telephone Corp., drove his black Cadillac into the parking lot of the Pierre Laclede Building, 7701 Forsyth Blvd., in the Clayton business district of suburban St. Louis. He and two telephone company vice-presidents, James Robb and James Napier, had decided on the spur of the moment to have lunch at the St. Louis Club. No one knew they were going there.

There were no empty spaces, but Lucier saw Theodore F. Schwartz, a respected attorney, back his black Lincoln Continental out of a parking stall. The two men knew each other and Schwartz waved to him. The lawyer, whose office was in the building, rarely left in his car for lunch, although this day he did.

The casual observer might not have noticed it, but, despite the difference in models, there was a similarity between Lucier's Cadillac and Schwartz' Lincoln. Not only were both black, each had a mobile telephone antenna and a four-digit license plate.

12:40 p. m. July 24, 1970 – A businessman drove slowly, looking for an empty space in the parking lot of the Pierre Laclede Building. Up ahead, he saw a man sitting behind the wheel of Lucier's black Cadillac. The door was open slightly and the man's foot dangled outside. It appeared as if he was working underneath the dashboard.

He recalled, "After a few minutes, I guessed the man was waiting for someone. Then, he looked back for a glance, pulled his foot inside, shut the door and sat there." The businessman found a space nearby. "I drove right behind the car, and then walked past it again to the building. It never occurred to me to look closer, there was nothing suspicious."